


Practical Magic

by PerilouslyClose



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F, Gen, Halloween
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerilouslyClose/pseuds/PerilouslyClose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happens so quickly she barely has time to breathe. A Halloween story for the lovely Amanda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practical Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esteoflorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteoflorien/gifts).



It happens so quickly she barely has time to breathe.

It’s the third day in a row her ladyship has dragged her to the soup kitchen—the same bloody soup kitchen _she_ had warned her about—but the Countess’ enthusiasm is infectious. Sarah even manages to crack a smile this time as she ladles soup into containers and presses bread into Cora’s slim fingers. In her poor weathered heart she knows it’s nothing to do with being charitable (when was the last time someone had given _her_ something for free?) and everything to do with her lady’s soft smile, the sparkle in her eyes, the colour in her cheeks when a battered lieutenant presses her fingers gratefully to his lips. The Countess is in her element, and it’s a bloody _honour_ , god save her soul, to be at her side.

And the journey home is just as pleasant—spent in companionable silence with Cora’s arm tucked through hers, Sarah could spend the rest of her days like this. Men in Europe are dropping like flies but _she_ has Cora Grantham on her arm and her world has never been more right.

Today, they’re halfway across the road when Cora’s arm tightens alarmingly around hers.

“O’Brien, my _hat_.”

There hadn’t been any point to pin it back on her ladyship’s head when she’d been so hot on the way down, but trust the Countess to forget it. Five years ago she might have rolled her eyes, but today she springs valiantly, _willingly_ , into action.

“I’ll go and get it, m’lady.”

“Oh O’Brien, there’s no need.”

It’s a kind gesture, but Sarah knows perfectly well that she’s expected to fetch it nonetheless—for all she treasures the relationship they’ve fostered it’s still impossible to forget who they are.

“It’ll only take me a moment. Wait here,” she adds, with a brief squeeze of the taller woman’s arm before she detaches herself. She may be a grown woman but the Countess has never been the same since _that day_ , and Sarah loathes leaving her.

She steps out into the road, and time seems to stand still.

She hadn’t seen the bus—hadn’t seen anything but Cora’s wistful expression at the thought of her poor hat being left behind—but there’s no time to dodge it now.  So much for darning her ladyship’s knickers until she’s old and grey! She’d never pictured her death any other way and Sarah had always considered herself far too sensible to be knocked down by a sodding bus of all things, but there’s nothing _sensible_ about how she feels for Cora. Perhaps there’s time for one last glance? If she’s going to die she wants the last thing she sees to be something she loves.

She’d hoped, rather selfishly, for sadness—if there were tears, horror perhaps, then at least then she would have known she had meant _something_ to Cora, but instead the Countess is charging towards her.

It’s an incredible sight—the Countess of Grantham, arm extended and palm splayed in the direction of the oncoming bus as if _willing_ it to stop, but it doesn’t stop. Instead Sarah watches, in horror and fascination, as the outstretched hand flicks to one side and the bus follows suit, swerving to the side and missing them by inches before unceremoniously impacting with a tree. It’s a minor impact—barely even a bump really—and Sarah, somewhere in her shaken state, deduces there’ll be no more than a bruise or two among the passengers on-board. She, on the other hand, would not have been quite so lucky.

She exhales, one, twice, _slowly_ , before Cora reaches her, entwining soft fingers with trembling, calloused ones, and tugs her from the road. She barely registers it; just that her ladyship is holding her hand with the same one she had… what? _Derailed a bus with_?

“M’lady?” Her voice has never sounded quite so strangled before, and she feels Cora’s hand tighten around hers.

“Let’s go home, O’Brien.”

“But m’lady, your hat—”

“ _Home_.” The single syllable escapes raggedly from her ladyship’s lips. The colour in her cheeks has vanished, and Sarah might have feared for her health if she hadn’t seen what she has just seen. Jesus, what _had_ she seen? This time Cora’s words are tempered with softness. “I’ll explain when we get home.”

And explain she does, over a sweet cup of tea in Cora’s drawing room that does little to calm Sarah’s nerves—a fantastical tale worthy of a novel, if only it had been a work of fiction. But the truth in her ladyship’s eyes is as real as the tears she’s struggling to blink back and Sarah finds herself believing, with every fibre of her being, in the house in New Orleans.

“So you’re—” She trails off. She might believe her, but it’s something else to _say_ it.

“A witch,” Cora concludes. Jesus fucking Christ, a _witch_. What is one supposed to say to a witch? _Something_ apparently, because her ladyship’s lip trembles and she reaches for her hand. “Please say something, O’Brien.”

Sarah’s throat is dry and her mind is racing with everything she has just been told—magic, rituals, a bloody _coven_ at the very heart of New York society—but there is _one_ thing she needs to say, and she grasps insistently at Cora’s fingers.

“You may be a witch but you’re still my lady—and you saved my life.”

It’s precisely what the Countess needs to hear, and even with the moisture making tracks down her face there is colour in her cheeks now. There is colour in hers too—the shock is receding, slowly. Sarah licks her lips. She wants to understand, but settling on _one_ question alone is proving an impossible task.

She supposes it makes most sense to begin at the start.

“Were you… _born_ a witch?”

The question sounds ignorant to her own ears, but how is she supposed to know? Up until five minutes ago she’d believed witches to be nothing but superstitious nonsense, but her ladyship is living and breathing proof to the contrary.

“Apparently so,” Cora murmurs softly. She’s nervous, and Sarah brushes her thumb absently over the back of her hand. “My mother was never _sure_ , until I turned thirteen.”

Her mother? At her quizzical glance, her ladyship elaborates.

“A family trait, presumably. My mother is quite the powerful witch.” _That_ Sarah has no trouble believing and her lips quirk up at the same time Cora’s do. A family trait, though? That could be problematic.

“The girls, m’lady—”

“Not that I know of,” Cora answers quickly, and Sarah tries not to feel _too_ relieved. But Lady Mary Crawley is bad enough without adding bloody _magic powers_ to the mix.

“How did you…” She breaks off, flushing. Her ladyship might well be a witch but she’s still ‘her ladyship’ and she’s concerned her questions are bordering on as impudent as they are numerous.

But the Countess doesn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite, she seems almost _relieved_ and it occurs to Sarah that this might well be the first time in some thirty years, give or take the odd visit from her mother, that Lady Grantham has been allowed to say these things. Sarah knows better than most what a burden it is to keep a piece of yourself hidden.

“Know?” Her smile is tinged with both embarrassment and amusement and the latter is infectious, but Cora’s reply is cut short by a knock on the door and the voice of the _last_ person Sarah can be bothered to deal with—now, and on any bloody given day for that matter.

With a wave of the Countess’ hand, Sarah watches the door lock—silently but decisively. Sarah smirks: now _that’s_ the sort of magic she wouldn’t mind possessing. But she can’t keep her husband locked out forever, and after thirty years at the side of this woman she knows full well when she’s about to be dismissed. After everything they’ve just shared, Sarah stings with disappointment but it’s tempered by the fingers squeezing hers.

 _Later_ , her eyes promise, and Sarah will wait forever if she has to.

 

 


End file.
